


put another dime in the jukebox, baby

by MistressKat



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Age Swap, First Time, M/M, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 07:05:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13898868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: Early van days, age reversal. -Pete is just shy of eighteen, a cocksure little shit of smudged eyeliner and ill-advised tattoos, fucking everything that moves, utterly bright and shameless and burning, burning, burning like a fire cracker, like a torched orphanage. And Patrick… Patrick is old enough to know better.





	put another dime in the jukebox, baby

**Author's Note:**

> This is not-fic. Herein lies a ridiculous mess of run on sentences, convoluted metaphors, and more feelings than you can shake a fedora at. I enjoyed writing this immensely, maybe you’ll enjoy reading it. The title is of course from [I Love Rock ‘n Roll’ by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts](https://youtu.be/xL5spALs-eA). Because of reasons.

At the start, Patrick tells himself not to feel like he’s responsible, that just because he’s a few years older and a few centuries wiser doesn’t mean he’s got some _obligation_. He tells himself to just sing, forget about everything else, because it’s not like this thing is going to last. When time makes a lie of that, when they’re getting gigs farther and farther, driving through darkness in Andy’s friend’s beaten up van, amps and dreams rattling at the back to the rhythm of the highway, Patrick has new lies to cultivate.  
  
By that time Pete is just shy of eighteen, a cocksure little shit of smudged eyeliner and ill-advised tattoos, fucking everything that moves, utterly bright and shameless and burning, burning, burning like a fire cracker, like a torched orphanage. And Patrick… Patrick is old enough to know better.  
  
Pete drinks too much, somehow, even though none of them will get him booze, and yet, yet, he calls Patrick up in the middle of the night to come and get him, _Trick please_ , wrecked and smelling of sex and Patrick says no, every time, and every time he goes anyway  
  
God, Patrick doesn't think he was ever that young, ever that determined to get old that fast either, burning through life like it was going to run out. Sometimes he looks at Pete and thinks that's what he expects to happen, to run out of life before he hits twenty-one, and that's why he's so determined to squeeze everything out of it. It's also why Patrick goes to get him every time he calls because _he_ sure as fuck expects Pete to make it to eighty-one at the very least, even if he has to drag him to old age himself.  
  
And the thing is, Pete’s conviction, his sheer unshaking determination to wring everything he deserves out of the world, is what carries the rest of them along. Objectively, Joe and Andy and Patrick are all better musicians than Pete, but it's Pete who makes them a band, something bigger than a sum of their parts. He's the glue, the frayed sticky tape, the one who fights them when they want to call it quits and _for_ them with his every heartbeat. More than once Patrick's been ready to walk out, only to be stopped by Pete clinging to his jacket with white-knuckles fists, throwing himself over any path that may lead away like a barbed wire fence of flesh and bone and gut-wrenching, unwavering faith.  
  
It's brilliant, exhilarating, exhausting, like living in the heart of a carnival where you go from the star attraction (' _no, no, you can't leave Trick, this is meant to be, you and me man, we're going to take over the world'_ ) to just another face in the crowd (Pete fucking some girl in the back of the van, loud and uncaring, disappearing into the toilets with some guy older than Patrick, coming out with a bruised mouth he presses to the corner of Patrick’s jaw like it's nothing). Sometimes he just _can't_ , can't take it anymore, has to find some space to breathe and to remember that he's a person in his own right, not just something that's _Pete’s_ (friend, band mate, song-writer, safety net).  
  
It's not so bad when they're at home because at least Patrick has his own place, has a job and even though it's a music store that Pete haunts regularly, there's a back room no one but the staff is allowed in and Patrick volunteers for stock taking a lot.  
  
When they're touring, it's another story altogether. After the last one – one shitty venue after another and although the audiences were great, they weren't enough to negate the weeks of cold burgers and sleeping in the van, watching Pete find a different person to suck face with in each town – Patrick thought he'd gotten a handle on it.  
  
Turns out, he'd only repressed the worst of it during the couple of months at home, a welcome break from rehearsals and Pete's constant presence, like a scab that's had a chance to heal because he’s not picking at it. Except then it's the next tour, four of them on the road, Pete falling asleep with his head on Patrick’s lap while the street lights streak past like comets and it's a knife to Patrick's new still pink skin, cutting straight through every single denial and delusion of 'being over it'.  
  
Because yeah. He isn't. But just because Pete is now almost eighteen rather than sixteen and a walking cautionary tale of statutory rape doesn't make it any easier. Quite the opposite. Each day makes the 'he's too fucking young' reason weaker, although, conversely, the 'he's busy fucking his way through the whole of Illinois' reason only gets stronger. As for the 'he'll break your heart if you let him' reason, well, Patrick's kind of given up on it, because it'll happen regardless. Pete breaks his heart every second of every hour, with each starlit grin, with every notebook full of words that burrow under Patrick's skin and stay there, handed over with downcast eyes and bitten lips.  
  
It's a ship that's sailed right off the edge of the world already, and now Patrick's just along for the long, heady fall to the unknown.  
  
Doesn't mean he has to be happy about it. In fact, right now, Patrick is feeling seriously pissed off. It's the kind of anger that has been building for a week, maybe longer, just roiling and turning, tighter and tighter at the pit of his stomach until he feels like he's burning up from inside out. There's no proper reason for it, just dozens and dozens of tiny setbacks and disappointments that piled on him: a broken laptop, crappy weather, a venue manager trying to shaft them with the payment (and that had ended up with Patrick's knuckles in the guy's eye socket until Andy had dragged him off) – all on top of days and days of sharing their shitty too small van with the others, someone's fucking stuff under feet all the time, someone else's elbow jammed to his side when he so much as breathed deeply.  
  
By the time they get to the party, Patrick is livid. It's Joe's cousin’s friend's friend’s place or something, and the only reason they're going is because Joe promises they can crash in the house after the party winds down, which is unlikely to happen until dawn if the amount of people is anything to go by. Patrick doesn't want to go in but he doesn't want to stay in the fucking van for another minute either, and it's too cold to just sit on the curb for the night although he seriously considers it. Joe's already been subsumed into a group of his friends and half-relations and Andy appears to be deep in discussion with some woman in the corner of the room. Patrick stands there for a moment and lets it all just wash over him; noise and smoke and press of bodies, smell of sweat and alcohol clinging to the air in an almost visible haze. Someone bumps into him, hard, sloshing beer over his denim jacket with a distracted 'sorry dude'.  
  
Patrick has his fists up and is stepping after the guy without any memory of deciding to move. He's a hair's breadth away from grabbing the back of the man's shirt when somebody else steps into his way, physically blocking him.  
  
"Hey, hey, Trick, chill out," Pete is saying. His hands are hot against Patrick's chest, pushing him back, back, mouth running all the time, eyes on Patrick's face, grin in place.  
  
Patrick blinks, lets his fists uncurl and Pete to crowd him toward the kitchen. Once there, he steps back though, grabbing the nearest bottle and downing half of it without even checking the contents. Lucky for him it's only piss poor beer rather than anything stronger. Not that he doesn't want something stronger, because god does he, but that way lies split knuckles and being thrown out of Joe's cousin's friend's friend's house and his bad mood shouldn't be the reason for all of them spending another freezing night at the back of the van.  
  
"You good?" Pete asks, still too close. Patrick can see the smudges of his eyeliner, the way his hair is curling at the nape, damp with sweat. And it's too much, too fucking much after the week he's had, after the show where Pete had draped himself all over Patrick's back, screaming into the same mic, hard against Patrick's hip while he licked a long stripe on his neck.  
  
"Fine," Patrick snaps, physically pushing Pete off, determinedly blind to the flash of hurt in his eyes. "Go on," he says, trying to gentle his tone when all he wants to do is wrap a hand around Pete's throat and shake him. "Go enjoy the party. I promise not to start any fights."  
  
Pete looks like he's going to argue back but then the kitchen floods with people and he's jostled toward the door. Something brittle and borderline mean flits over his expression, there and gone too quickly for Patrick to interpret. "I'll do that then," he says, already half swallowed by the crowd.  
  
Patrick expects that to be the last he sees of Pete until tomorrow, which is just fine with him. He's too on edge to get a handle on his stupid feelings, will only end up causing the kind of wounds Pete already has too many, will make him think Patrick doesn't want him when the problem is the exact opposite.  
  
Except Pete won't fucking let it be. No matter where in the house Patrick goes, Pete shows up, pushing against him with a drink, some pointless question, sometimes seemingly to just connect. He keeps catching Patrick's eye across the room, launching himself off tables into the waiting hands of the revellers, his shirt discarded somewhere, skin gleaming, tattoos practically writhing in the twist of bodies and pulsing lights. He's all over everyone willing, in every room Patrick goes, eyes black and burning over other people's shoulders as they seek Patrick out, full of challenge and ' _look at me, look at me, do you see?_ ' as if Patrick could not watch, like it's some kind of _choice_ on his part.  
  
It's not like he's lacking offers himself. He politely turns down at least three people who ask nicely, and tells two others who are less nice about it to fuck off. Maybe he should take the opportunity to go fuck out some of the dark, spiralling feeling of inevitability that is winding tighter and tighter around him, it would be safer, for everyone, but he can't pull himself out the orbit he and Pete are stuck on, circling each other like planets caught up in a gravitational pull of mutual destruction.  
  
The party gets louder, harder, nastier. Patrick sees people all but fucking in the shadowy corners, witnesses at least two fights break out, knuckles itching to join in. He doesn't get like this often, has learned to get a much firmer grip on his temper since his teenage years and fuck knows someone needs to be the responsible one in the band with half of it underage and Andy openly declaring himself the neutral fourth party and refusing to step in unless actual lives are at stake. Which left Patrick handing out life advice and condoms with his added six years of experience. Luckily, Joe was fairly easy going, more likely to get stoned and fall asleep somewhere than cause any trouble.  
  
Of course, Pete had trouble covered. It was etched in the corner of every grin, in the sharp jut of cocked hip, in every line of bleeding emotion scratched over scraps of paper tucked into Patrick's bag, his guitar case, in his pockets. And usually Patrick was more than happy to handle it, to be the complicated mix of a friend-mentor-crush(yeah, he wasn't blind to that) -writing partner, a shoulder to lean on, a hand to pull Pete out of the dark mire of self-doubt he got caught on. But tonight...  
  
Tonight, Patrick is fraying at the edges, coming undone thread by thread every time Pete's eyes sweep over him, every time his hands slide over the curve of Patrick's ribs as he leans in, in, in, mouth wet and hot next to Patrick's ear. " _Hey_ ," he breathes, bites out, "enjoying the partly like you told me" and "best part of believe is the lie" and "Patrick, _Patrick_ , you never..." until Patrick forgets why he never, never, ever lets himself reach out like he wants to, why he doesn't grip the curve of Pete's bicep, trace the line of the barbed wire and collarbones, why he doesn't fist Pete's belt, fingers curling under his waistband, knuckles tucked against the bartskull tattoo, pressing down hot and hard on Pete’s lower stomach, making him gasp and buck and arch into it.  
  
Tonight, Patrick watches Pete bounce from person to person and always, always circle back to him, hair a mess, make-up all but gone, his torso bare and shining. He pushes, pushes, and Patrick pushes back, both of them vibrating with adrenaline and frustration, teeth bared to keep the harsh words inside. Each time they touch, Patrick thinks this is it, this time he's going to snap, but instead the tension just coils and coils, until he feels like he's choking from it. Patrick bites his tongue, imagines biting Pete's instead, thinks about licking sweat right off the dip of his sternum and he knows, _knows_ it's all showing on his face when Pete's eyes grow dark, his tongue dipping out to lap at his bottom lip as he stares at Patrick from the dancefloor, already heading over again.  
  
He's determined, furious, knocking back Patrick's hands that come up – to ward him off or to pull him in, he doesn't even know – and pressing right in. This is no sideways hug, or quick kiss to the side of his neck, this is not Pete rolling his forehead across Patrick's shoulders in the middle of the song, his bass screaming with feedback. It's a full body chest-to-chest hips-to-hips demanding hands invasion of personal space as Pete grabs the back of Patrick's neck and all but growls into his ear. " _You can_ ," he pants, heavy and fast like he's ran a marathon, fingers stealing under Patrick's shirt, quick and too damn clever. "What the fuck are you waiting for?" he hisses, voice raw from the gig still, "You _can_ , Patrick, c'mon, I—"  
  
Patrick wrenches himself back, pushing Pete away hard enough to send him stumbling to the floor. They stare at each other for three long seconds, both of them breathing harshly, and then Patrick turns on his heels and stalks off. He pushes past people, heading for the front door and then through.  
  
The frigid night air hits him like a car crash, stealing out a breath that sounds more like a sob as it comes stuttering out of his chest. He wants to put a fist through something so badly he's shaking. He takes the steps down blindly, almost falling. There are people on the street so he turns the corner, heading to the side of the house.  
  
"Patrick!" Of course, of course, Pete is out too, running after him, skidding as he rounds the corner.  
  
"Get back!" Patrick tells him. He ducks behind the house; a neglected patch of frost stiff grass, and a rusted swing set. It's curiously empty considering the party going on inside but then Patrick notices boards criss-crossing the backdoor, obviously out of commission for the moment. That explains the crowds at the front.  
  
By the time Patrick's done surveying his surroundings, Pete's caught up with him. The garden may be half-wild but the motion detectors work well enough, light illuminating the two of them in shades of blueish white. Pete is already shivering, goose bumps chasing across his bare arms and chest. Patrick looks away from the way his nipples pebble up.  
  
"Go back," he says again. He doesn't dare to put his hands on Pete's skin now, not even to push him away. "You're going to freeze."  
  
"No," Pete says, sounding oddly calm and reasonable, although it doesn't last beyond that one syllable because he's already advancing, spitting mad once more. "I'm not going to let you run away from this again."  
  
"I'm not... I'm not running away!" Patrick grits out. It's a blatant lie of course. He'd be running still if there was somewhere to go but Pete's got him cornered now in this post stamp sized garden.  
  
"Liar, liar, liar," Pete chants, emphasising each repeat with a hard poke to Patrick's chest. It's not gentle and by the third Patrick's had enough and he grabs Pete's wrist, wrenching it to the side and then... Fails to let go.  
  
"Yeah," Pete sighs, breathy and smug like he's just won the argument. Despite the cold his skin is burning under Patrick's fingers. He sways closer as if drunk but Patrick smells nothing but piss poor beer in his breath, and his eyes are sharp and glittering.  
  
"This is not a good idea," Patrick says tightly. He tells himself to loosen his grip, to step back, but the message gets lost somewhere between his brain and the rest of his body. "Pete..." He swallows, trots out another argument from his 'Reasons Why I Will Not Push Pete To His Knees No Matter How Much He Looks Like He's Gagging For It' list, the one he knows better than the lyrics of some of their songs. "You're too young."  
  
Pete laughs, short and ugly. "You know, you're hardly the first person to say that. You might be the first one who hasn’t immediately put their hands on me anyway… Especially if they’ve looked at me like that. Like..." He shakes his head, searching for words. "Screw that, actually. _No one's_ ever looked at me like you are. Have been, for a while now."  
  
Patrick's stomach drops, a mixture of shame and sick anger at anyone who ever laid a hand on Pete without care, without appreciating what they had.  
  
"No, hey, Patrick..." Pete pushes right into his space now and Patrick's arms come up automatically, hugging him back. "I like it, _I like it when it’s you_ , Patrick, please," he's whispering frantically into the damp curve of Patrick's neck. "Don't say that, don't... This is a fucking excellent idea," Pete insists, "The best idea ever. Patrick, Patrick, you can't tell me..." And there's the vulnerability now, the self-doubt, stealing like a shadow over Pete's face, when he pulls back just a bit, his eyes cutting to the side and away. "You can't tell me you don't want this?" It's clearly meant to be a statement of fact but comes out like a question instead.  
  
It's what breaks through the last of Patrick's resolve. Because Pete is right, he can't tell him that, can't say he doesn't want this, doesn't want _him_. He can't lie, not any more.  
  
And god damn Pete for forcing the truth out of him, god _fucking damn_ him for pushing buttons Patrick didn't even know he had.  
  
"Shit," Patrick spits out. "You son of a bitch." He's pissed off again, doesn't like to be backed into a corner, still so fucking terrified this is going to ruin everything, that Pete is going to push them past this point of no return and there won't be anything left, no band, no friendship. No Pete. "Why'd you have to...?" His fingers dig into Pete's bare arms as he shakes him, rough enough to rattle, his head snapping back from the force of it. " _Pete_." And that too comes out like a curse word.  
  
"Patrick." Pete is grinning at him through it all, shameless and so fucking pleased with himself. Patrick wants to wipe it off his face and just can't decide whether to use his fists or his mouth. "Are you going to kiss me already?" Pete asks then, brazen but with an underlying current of desperation, thick enough to slur his words. "Or do I have to go back to the party and find someone else to—"  
  
It's a deliberate provocation, transparent and cheap, but fuck if it doesn't work anyway. Patrick doesn't make a conscious decision to move but Pete's back hits the brick wall of the house nonetheless, hard enough that it must be scraping his shoulder blades raw but he offers no protest, only arching off, pressing right into Patrick's hands, moaning into his mouth when Patrick kisses his way in, all teeth and aggression and two years of bent up want.  
  
"God, god, Patrick," Pete mumbles into the scant seconds their mouths part, each press of lips longer and "Wanted this," he keeps saying, hands tugging at Patrick's shirt, "Wanted you, so long," blunt fingers tracing the curve of Patrick's ribs, digging into the muscles of his back hard enough to bruise.  
  
"Shut up," Patrick tells him, shoving himself closer, a knee between Pete's legs that open for him so easy, no hesitation there at all, "shut up, shut up." He bites at Pete's bottom lip, the curve of his jaw, leaves a mark on the side of his neck, another one on his collarbone just above the tattoo. They're going to show even if Pete keeps a shirt on, which he's not likely to do during the gigs, and Patrick thinks about all the hungry eyes on Pete, how everyone is going to see, how some might even guess who left them and...  
  
"Fuck, fuck, oh please," Pete chants, hands scrabbling at Patrick's belt buckle, the sound of a zipper being opened shockingly loud even with the noise of the party pouring in through the windows not too far from where they're standing. "Please," Pete says, his fingers slipping under the waistband of Patrick's underwear, " _let me_."  
  
This is a bad idea, Patrick knows it. They are out in the open, never mind that the back garden is a secluded as it's going to get outside of them actually finding a bedroom with a door that locks – and fuck, Patrick needs to make that happen as soon as possible if they, if Pete... But then he'd always known that, right from the start, since the first fleeting press of lips to his neck, since the first notebook handed over full of half-ripped pages and broken hearts.  
  
Pete's warm, calloused hand wraps around his cock, pushing Patrick's jeans out of the way, and yeah, fuck, on some level he'd always known they'd end up here – Pete sliding to his knees in the narrow gap between Patrick and the wall, pupils blown, wet mouth greedy and perfect – it was only a matter of time, time and Patrick's self-control.  
  
It snaps now – again, over and over – as he pushes into Pete's warm mouth, moaning when Pete urges him deeper, grabbing Patrick's hand and bringing it to his head in a clear indication of what he wants.  
  
"Oh fuck," Patrick gasps, fingers clenching in Pete's product stiff hair, hips jerking forward, "God, look at you. I... oh! Such a – fuck! – sweet boy, taking me so well." The words pour out, disjointed and gravelly in between the wet drag of Pete's tongue, the flutter of his throat, and Patrick's always had a bit of mouth on him during sex, he can't help it, especially not now, not with Pete.  
  
Pete's eyes fly open, shocked and dark, when Patrick calls him a 'sweet boy' and for a moment Patrick think he's going to pull off to laugh in his face but the surprise melts into helpless lust and Pete whines, pushing closer. He takes Patrick deep enough to gag, pulls in great big heaving breaths through his nose and does it again, his eyes watering, and the remnants of mascara spreading shadows underneath them that Patrick brushes off with his thumb. He means to say 'you don't have to' but there are no words left, none to deny Pete, and instead he loses himself in the wet heat of Pete's mouth, the perfect, fragile curve of his bent neck under Patrick's hand.  
  
Pete looks up, pupils blown, and it's the unguarded need in his eyes that pushes Patrick over, Pete's name torn out like something unholy as he comes and comes, nails digging bloody half-moons across the cosmos of Pete's shoulders.  
  
They both shake, after, a feedback loop of sharp shivers running from Patrick's hands to Pete's bowed back, Pete's lips pressed to Patrick's thighs, trembling. Patrick can feel the sweat cooling on his skin, knows that if he's getting cold Pete must be freezing. His mind is still like a night-time desert, every 'what if' blown clear out by the way Pete mouths at his hand when Patrick's cups his face, urging him up, _up, c'mon darlin', get up, to me, that's it, good, good boy._ And Pete comes, clumsy and eager and scared, somewhere underneath it all so fucking scared, breath hitching with relief when Patrick hauls him in, kisses him like they're drowning because they are, have been heading for this shipwreck since the start.  
  
"C'mon," Patrick urges, pressing a knee between Pete's, "c'mon, baby" and the endearment should be laughable considering who they are but Pete's hips tell another story, stuttering into a sloppy rhythm, his arms curling around Patrick, latching on. He wants to get his hands on Pete, his mouth, fuck, everything, but there's no time now, Pete too far gone, rutting against the solid line of Patrick's thigh, mouth slack and pliant under Patrick's.  
  
It doesn't take long, Pete shaking through his orgasm, body quaking in the tight circle of Patrick's arms, head thrown back in surrender. The sky above is as black as the wreath of thorns on Pete's skin and Patrick breathes, breathes, breathes, something inside breaking and mending at each inhale, at each press of Pete's mouth against the side of his neck.  
  
"Knew it," Pete whispers, "or hoped, I hoped."  
  
"Me too," Patrick says. He kisses the night right off Pete's mouth, tasting something like tears, something like the future.


End file.
